Familial Obligations
by tears0fhate
Summary: Sherlock needs some financial help from her older brother to fuel a fatal addiction.


_**Warning: Minor drug references**_

* * *

_Dear brother, how are you? –SH _

_Need a favour. –SH _

Mycroft Holmes read the text messages from his younger sister Sherlock and sighed. He wondered what Sherlock could possibly need from him that was urgent enough for her to message him for.

_What do you need this time, Sherlock? –MH _

As Sherlock read her brother's reply she smirked and pulled up the collar of her coat to block the piercing wind. It was freezing out tonight and the rain was beginning to come down with a sense of urgency much like Sherlock's. She was already walking towards her brother's flat.

_A little cash. -SH_

Sherlock had promised herself not to get into this kind of situation again, desperate and prepared to do anything. She never imagined she would sooner go to her brother for help than anyone else. She tried not to let Mycroft into her life as much as she possibly could. It made things messy and complicated, more than they already were.

_How much is a little? –MH_

_$250. -SH_

_Why? –MH _

Mycroft had a fairly clear idea of why Sherlock needed cash, and why she came to him of all people. He had been maintaining a level of surveillance on his sister because he was worried about her. Extremely worried, in fact.

_Because there was an unexpected inflation in a product I purchase. –SH_

Sherlock wondered why Mycroft was so concerned about lending his sister such a small sum of money, but then again, she knew Mycroft was concerned about her recent activities. She knew she needed to be careful about how she explained the situation to Mycroft. She arrived outside Mycroft's flat and waited.

_Sherlock, you cannot come running to me every time you need money. –MH_

_If I could ask anyone else in the world, I would. This was unexpected, some help would be good. It won't end well if I don't pay. –SH_

_Come to the flat. –MH _

_I'm here already. Open up. –SH _

Sherlock pocketed her phone, a cigarette hanging from her smirked expression, hair dangling over vacant eyes and dilated pupils. She lifted her head as the door opened and walked past her brother.

"Hello, dear brother of mine," she quipped, sarcastically.

"Sherlock you know I don't appreciate it when you leave cigarette ash all over my carpets," Mycroft sighed. He walked to his sister and put a hand on her shoulder, tentatively. This was the extent of their physical connection. "What trouble are you in this time?"

Sherlock rolled her eyes and pointedly blew smoke into Mycroft's face before stubbing her cigarette out in the crystal ashtray in the hall, kept there purely for her infrequent visits. "I told you, I'm short." She considered shrugging him off but appreciated her brother's warmth as opposed to the cold London air. "Unexpected price hike," she continued, vaguely, dropping her cigarette into the ashtray. Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship had always been strained but it was improving. The infrequent visits were becoming more regular and consistent; the brief physical encounters were lingering longer.

"I need a little more information here, dear sister," Mycroft tried to pry more information from the cold, sterile grip Sherlock kept on everything.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably away from him, biting her lip and lifting her gaze. "My dealer is charging me more," she mumbled quickly, "presumably because he thinks I can't pay it and he'd like me to pay another way." She grimaced, gulping a little as she met her brother's eye, trying desperately to keep her expression neutral.

"Sherlock… you know I cannot continually produce funds to fuel this habit of yours." Mycroft saw a glint of shame on Sherlock's face. He knew this was incredibly hard for her, to ask, to be vulnerable. "I will give you the cash now, but you need to promise me you will work on this… problem."

Sherlock's jaw tightened, clenching her fist as she glared at Mycroft. She was aware her brother could read her easily, although it didn't mean she'd drop her stubborn mask for him. "It's not a problem," she muttered, "forget it, I'll figure something out. I don't want your help."

Mycroft had offended Sherlock. He could read her like the pages of his morning newspaper, the ink still wet and warm on his fingers. The twitch of the jaw, clench of the fist, Sherlock's tell tale signs. "I would rather you come to me for money than anyone else, especially under the circumstances. Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder blade and gently urged her forward. "Come, Sherlock."

Sherlock hunched a little as she felt him touching her bones and she could sense a lecture on her eating habits coming soon. Reluctantly, she walked to the living room with him. "I don't need help," she repeated, "I'll pay the other way, you hardly care. You just don't want it public."

"You know I care, Sherlock. I don't have a choice," Mycroft tried to console Sherlock, "I am still your brother, and you're my sister. I do care." Mycroft walked over to the hidden safety deposit box in the living room. He opened it and counted out 5 hundred-dollar bills. "Please use the rest to buy some food."

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "I'm seventeen, not seven. There's food at mother and father's house. Not that you'd know, you're never there," she added. Cautiously, she took the money and nodded in thanks. "What are the conditions?"

"We both know that you don't spend that much time there either, Sherlock. You don't act seventeen," Mycroft teased. He knew that Sherlock didn't like him mentioning her age; it made her feel like a child. "Just look after yourself. That's it."

Sherlock glared at her older brother. "Twenty-four is getting on in years, don't you think? Might want to get life insurance," she drawled back. Their banter had never been something that left them, even as their relationship had become increasingly strenuous. "It doesn't matter what happens to me Mycroft," she dropped her gaze.

Mycroft chuckled. He liked this point in their encounters. "I'm looking into it, don't you worry." He smiled, slightly. It had been a long time since their relationship was this simple.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Good," she replied, "considering the nature of your position, I'd say it's recommended." She frowned, tapping her long, neatly manicured fingernails against her bony knees. Shifting with slight uncertainty, she leant against the wall to establish contact with the flat without sitting down. Mycroft would get it. A few moments of silence passed before she smacked her lips, "Are you well?" she mumbled shyly.

"I'm fine. I've been doing… the usual," Mycroft replied. He tried to be subtle when talking about his business. "Sit down, Sherlock. Don't be daft," he motioned across the room towards the extravagantly large leather armchair beside Sherlock. "You look like you're about to collapse."

Sherlock wrinkled her nose and fell into the plush chair, the leather holding the soft scent of scotch and aftershave. "I'm not," she argued stubbornly, though he may well be right. Sherlock hadn't eaten in the last few days; she'd found herself distracted. Clearing her throat she lent forward, surveying her brother sharply. "How's the diet?" she asked lowly. It sounded like a tease, sometimes it was thrown out when Mycroft's concern bothered her. It was her way of checking up on him without openly stating the less enjoyable memories of her brother only drinking coffee.

"I'm surviving just fine on scotch, thank you very much, dear sister. Speaking of, would you like some?" Mycroft figured that alcohol could replace food in the meantime. He was already planning on sending someone with groceries to Sherlock's private flat. Mycroft knew about all of Sherlock's private residences.

Sherlock sighed, "Drinking underage… isn't that one of those law things?" Sherlock countered, initially frowning at his response, before it clicked seconds later that it was his code for okay. Nodding, she scanned his features with curiosity as he handed her a tumbler. "You… you oh, how did I not realise. Of course you know," she sighed. She realised that Mycroft was indeed aware of the small sublet she spent most of her time in.

"I know most things, Sherlock." The sides of Mycroft's lip upturned into a smirk as he took a long sip of his scotch. He had learnt early not to hold back on the alcohol in the presence of Sherlock. "How are you, dear sister? It's been some time since we caught up."

Sherlock scowled as she took a large gulp of her drink. Mycroft was the more alert of the two, he was the chess master. "Just fine," she spat back at Mycroft. She lowered her eyes and muttered, "Distracted as of late."

"Ah, I see." Mycroft could tell Sherlock wanted to talk. She just wasn't sure how to express it. "Would you like to talk about it? Even a little bit?" Mycroft couldn't help but be worried about his little sister. "I know it's… hard for you."

Sherlock flashed her eyes in defence before stopping herself, although there was hardly any point in pretence around her brother. Sighing, she finished her drink in two quick sips, an entirely poor choice considering her thin frame and lack of nourishment. "I'm not entirely sure how to explain it without sounding pathetic," she admitted, "or stupid, which is worse."

"We both know you're not stupid in any sense, Sherlock." Mycroft was genuinely worried about Sherlock now. Her delicate frame, her sallow cheeks, paired with dark shadows haunting her face, it all pointed towards a sad decline. "Come on now. You can be open with me. Out of anyone else, I'm here for you."

Sherlock cocked her head curiously, "You really are worried aren't you? To say that openly, I mean," she mused, biting her lip. She was aware of how dishevelled she looked, supposing it matched how she felt. Sighing, Sherlock took a small, shallow breath. "Well, it's no secret I'm not the happiest individual… or that in control of my mind but… the drugs help with that," frowning, she continued, " but I thought I'd try something else and it's not helping anymore. It's just not right."

Mycroft saw the walls come down. They crashed around Sherlock and left clouds of dust, reflecting in the air. She was finally opening up to him. "Have you ever considered that the drugs aren't helping?" Mycroft said softly, "Wait, what do you mean by 'something else'?" Mycroft began to wonder if the situation was more serious than even he realised.

"This isn't about the drugs," Sherlock argued defensively, "I don't need help for them." Her voice shook when she said it, desperately trying to protect the narcotics. "Someone else, technically," she corrected her brother. "Do you know Victor Trevor?"

Mycroft knew Sherlock was just distracting from the drugs, which were a problem. "Yes I know him, Sherlock. I know more about things than you realise, I presume. Is there a problem?"

Sherlock's back stiffened defensively. Her brother's omniscience hitting a nerve deeply rooted in their feud. "Well you know I've been shagging him then," she shot back, harshly. "Oh," she caught his expression, "you didn't know that then did you, brother dear."

"Well, I don't preoccupy myself in your… sexual escapades, Sherlock. I feel that's a little inappropriate. I was aware of your… encounters." Mycroft could tell Sherlock was teasing a rise out of him. "Why is this a problem for you then, dear sister?" he spat back, venomously, acting as if he were younger than Sherlock herself.

Sherlock internalised the flinch from his tone. This could either end badly or well depending on how she retorted. "Well you know everything, tell me, is he a savoury individual?" Her drawl escalated before she reigned herself in, feeling sick joking about it. "He's unkind," she ended softly. Her demeanour changed entirely.

Mycroft knew he would have to tread carefully in his inflection and tone. This could end badly for both of them if he was not cautious. "Is he unkind to you?" he searched for a more delicate phrase, "Is he… explicitly unkind to you?" Mycroft's imagination took this into places he hadn't dared think of before.

Sherlock rolled her eyes, "Yes," she admitted, "It's beside the point. I endeavoured to feel something and it's no longer paying off. The effect and the act isn't outweighed by his behaviour," she fought to maintain a cerebral voice. She hadn't allowed herself to so much as look vulnerable in front of her brother before.

"How long has… this been harmful to you?" Mycroft walked slowly over to Sherlock, who look battered and bruised. Her internal injuries shone rightly on her exterior. She carried chains around her shoulders. Mycroft bent at the knee and put a hand on her knee. He felt her shrug away from the contact, he knew she didn't like being vulnerable, but he didn't know what else to do, an uncommon occurrence for Mycroft.

Sherlock tried to move but Mycroft tightened his grip. "Three months," she replied bluntly. Her voice sounded as worn as she looked. Her mouth felt dry and she sat, un-moving for a long while.

"God, Sherlock, why are you doing this to yourself?" Mycroft didn't want to be angry, he didn't even realise he was. He was angry more at himself for allowing his sister to get herself into a situation she knew would be harmful. It was self-inflicted, all of it.

Sherlock gave a shrug. Swallowing with some difficulty, she shook her head. "I don't know," she replied slowly, "I'm empty. It hardly matters what I do."

"You're too smart to be doing this to yourself, Sherlock. You're only seventeen. You can't do this anymore. You can't. It's… It's…" Mycroft felt a catch in his throat. He had never been so affected by his sister's emotional turmoil. "Please."

Sherlock lifted her head, looking at Mycroft warily. "Mycroft, I'm hardly physically hurt." She frowned with a flat grimace. "I'm not a child," she muttered.

Mycroft felt a tug in his chest. It was rusty and metallic. It hurt him so much to see his sister denying her pain. "Physical or not, I can't watch you deteriorate anymore."

"Then don't," she snarled coldly, her eyes flashing blank. Sherlock tried to stand from her seat, but felt Mycroft hold her knees. "Let me go, I'm fine. I needed the cash, that's why I came, not for help or company."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft raised his voice to the point that he knew would intimidate even Sherlock into submission. She needed to be collected and pieced back together again. The lump in Mycroft's throat was gathering, building up, he could hardly choke out the words. "Please, Sherlock. Just stay. Just for a little while."

Sherlock did not even internalise her reaction, then she practically ducked, but that was Mycroft's intention all along. She took small, shallow breaths. "You sounded like Father," she muttered sourly, wringing her hands. "I'm fi-" the lie became choked up in her words, she shut her eyes. "I'm actually not. I'm not fine, Mycroft."

Mycroft saw Sherlock crumble. He watched it happen right in front of him. He had never in his life been more ashamed of his actions nor had he seen Sherlock so vulnerable. She was bare. It was shocking to him. "I know, Sherlock. Just sit." Mycroft had never been the one to console Sherlock. In fact, Sherlock had never needed to be consoled like this.

Sherlock twisted her face like a child refusing food, digging her nails hard into her palms, and drawing blood. She refused to relinquish one scrap of control. Nodding, she slumped as though the string keeping her up were cut. "I… we don't do this," she muttered.

Mycroft wasn't entirely sure how to be there for Sherlock, he just knew that he had to be. "I don't know either." He noticed her hands, clenched into tight fists, her skin turning a pale shade of blue. He took both of her tiny, fragile hands in his. This was unfamiliar territory for both of them. "Come, now. It's alright."

Sherlock shot him an odd look. "I think we're normal," she muttered with a tone of disgust before sighing. "I don't like the way he is.

"Normal is okay sometimes, you know," Mycroft uttered softly. He could cope with normal if this was it, although he wasn't quite sure that normalcy could be a characteristic of their relationship. "How do you mean?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock shifted her fingers in her brother's embrace. "I don't like how he talks, how he touches me, how he looks at me," she screwed her face up, "he's possessive and rough during, and then snide and expectant and… he's just unkind."

Mycroft felt Sherlock was uncomfortable, but accepting. The warmth of his hands was transferring into his sister's. There was some colour back in her cheeks, if only slight. "Why do you let him? You're perfectly capable of being direct. We know that, don't we?" Mycroft tried to make the conversation a little more light, in hopes that Sherlock would open up to him.

Sherlock smirked just a little, memories of them growing up together crept back into her mind. "Because I don't care what happens to me," she replied simply, sounding a little shocked with herself, "and I don't get normal functioning things. That's not what people like me understand. People like me get people like him."

Mycroft could see light in her eyes, just briefly. He knew that she was reminiscing of their childhood together. "And people like me can see that you have enough insight to know the difference between carelessness and being harmful." Mycroft didn't know how to make Sherlock understand how he saw the situation.

Sherlock scowled. As usual, he was correct. "Fine," she spat back in the same way an animal would bite if they felt threatened. "Maybe I want to hurt myself this way. It's not your problem."

"It most certainly is my problem, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "We're interconnected in a funny little way, as much as we might deny it." Mycroft was trying to open up to Sherlock as well. She was baring all to him, she was defenceless and small at this moment.

"Hmm… yes I hear being related connects people," Sherlock quipped dryly before looking down. She sighed, "I don't know why I let him do this."

"Could it be that you're hurting so much on the inside, you want to pain on the outside to reflect it?" Mycroft was beginning to see a clearer picture now. His sister was lost, hurt and confused. She was so young; Mycroft wondered why he hadn't noticed earlier.

Sherlock gulped at the thought of her brother's insight. "Yes," she uttered in a choked voice before groaning. "You're looking at me like I'm little again."

"You are little, dear sister. Compared to me. I'm due for a casket fitting any day now," Mycroft chuckled. He was teasing the smile out of Sherlock again. "What are you going to do about it? About him?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock frowned, thinking hard. "I don't know…" her voice sounding worn. She marvelled at her indecisiveness.

"Do you want to do something about it?" Mycroft asked, wondering how he could help his little sister. He was beginning to see a different side to her.

Sherlock bit her tongue. "No," she cleared her throat, "and yes."

"Do you think you should? Speaking strictly rationally, here." Mycroft knew he could get the right answer from her. He knew he had to help her out of this.

Sherlock felt her posture shift as she thought more objectively. "Yes, of course. He's vile and cruel."

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would be truly affected by their discussion tonight. She knew, of course, exactly what was happening, she was aware, but there was that self-destructive side to her that would never subside. "Exactly my thoughts, dear sister."

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, throat dry and cracked. "I'm just hiding from the truth like a young girl," she said, her gaze dropping.

Mycroft could feel Sherlock's hands in his, finally warm. "Let me get you some tea." Mycroft stood and pulled her up and took Sherlock into the kitchen, sitting her down at the bench. She looked exhausted and emotionally drained.

Sherlock protested about being led into the kitchen, refusing help to sit on the bench, despite being malnourished and tired. "Something strong than tea… 7% stronger," she drawled.

"You need nourishment. Even tea is better than nothing. Unless you'll eat something?" Mycroft had the full intention of making her eat; he just didn't want to come off that way.

Sherlock felt her lip curl before rolling her eyes. "I've no reason to not eat, now I've come down… fine," she relented. "I'll eat." Sherlock clacked her tongue, "He'll get bored of playing with me eventually."

"No one could ever get bored of you, Sherlock." Mycroft filled the kettle and turned the stove on. "I certainly haven't, not yet, at least."

Sherlock snorted, "You've a familial obligation to let me in your life." She looked at him oddly, "Are you complimenting me?"

"I do think quite highly of you," Mycroft grinned. "Yes, I'm complimenting you."

Sherlock shrugged, "Fine." She bit her lip and mumbled, "You think I need help… I don't."

"You do." Mycroft set a coaster and a mug of steaming hot tea in front of Sherlock and asked, "What would you like to eat?"

Sherlock twitched her nose, taking the tea and sipping it cautiously, the effects of the alcohol subsiding. "Victor helps a little," she murmured, unsure as to why she was defending him and impressed that her self-destruction ran that deep. "Food," she offered, unhelpfully.

Mycroft knew Sherlock was trying desperately to regain some control over herself by defending Victor, clinging onto that part of her life. Mycroft also knew that his pantry and fridge were both empty, apart from some coffee and milk. "What if I just get something delivered?"

Sherlock frowned. "You should keep food in your house," she shot back, a little concerned before nodding. "Yes, fine. Anything is fine."

"I'm not even here most of the time, there's no point," Mycroft said, feeling slightly hypocritical. "I'll be bringing over groceries for you in the morning, so I can pick up extra for me anyway. Don't worry yourself."

Sherlock pulled a face of exasperation and smirked, "As ever, I'm concerned for you," she repeated his words back to him, though there was truth to them. "Fine, get chinese."

Mycroft opened the drawer filled with cutlery he never used and the numbers for the closest takeaways. Mycroft didn't believe in cooking. "You're staying here tonight, by the way."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh thank-you for giving me that option," she argued stubbornly, knowing full well she was staying at her brother's the moment she sat down.

"I'm just looking out for you. No need to be so grateful." Mycroft gave Sherlock a smirk and dialled the number for the takeaway.

"I assure you, I'm not." Sherlock watched him order, sipping her tea intently before picking at the thread of her black jeans. "He'll be there tomorrow when I go back."

"Then I'm coming with you." Mycroft was being over-protective because it was the only way he knew how to be brotherly.

Sherlock smirked, "I'm sure there are other ways to be brotherly without sticking your nose in my life." Stopping, she nodded, "Actually though, that would be good."

"It's the only way I know how to protect you, which is something I should have done three months ago, apparently." Mycroft was glad that Sherlock admitted to needing him.

Sherlock rolled her eyes, "Oh for god's sake, if you had your way, I'd do nothing ever."

"If I had my way, you would be a lot less stubborn, but I guess you learnt most of that from me." Mycroft unbuttoned his coat and hung it over the bench next to Sherlock.

Sherlock played with the buttons on his jacket as her brother paused in thought. "This is hardly your fault," she said.

"It's no one's fault. It's our genetic makeup, it's our… family tradition." Mycroft wondered if they would be different, under other circumstances.

"I'm programmed to do things that hurt?" Sherlock countered before faltering, "I suppose you didn't exactly have the smoothest teenage years so there might be truth in that."

"There's much truth to it… too much, really. We could've saved ourselves many a sleepless night," Mycroft paused, "I wouldn't have it any other way, you know."

Sherlock shook her head, "Why?"

"Because without it, this… tonight wouldn't have happened and I'm glad it did." Mycroft felt pathetic, he wasn't this type of person… at least he didn't think he was.

Sherlock said nothing for a while. "What, me being pitiful and you trying to console me, despite neither of us knowing how?" she pressed before clearing her throat, "I know what you meant, I… it was different. Not bad, but different…. needed."

"You're not pitiful, not in the slightest. If anyone was, it was me," Mycroft chuckled, he'd never talked to Sherlock like this before. He could see past her sunken, hollow cheeks and pale blue skin, he saw a beautiful young woman. He realised he had never seen Sherlock properly before.

Sherlock frowned, "Why are you looking at me like that? You look daft." She bit her lip. "Mycroft, can you even hear me?"

"You're very beautiful, you know," Mycroft felt daft, Sherlock was right. "You need to get rid of Victor, sooner rather than later, too."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Shut up," she muttered. It was easier than telling him she didn't believe it. "I can't. He's right, nobody else would want me."

Mycroft didn't pursue Sherlock further. The doorbell rang and he went to answer the door. "Stay here," he warned Sherlock.

Sherlock threw her hands up in sarcastic defence, waiting for him to return with the containers of food. She let the smell hit her as her stomach growled. "He is right though," she mumbled.

"Nothing that… creature says is true and you know it. You just don't want to believe it," Mycroft said, watching Sherlock's actions carefully. She was being extremely cautious around him, around the food, it was overwhelming her.

She stared at the rice for a while, keeping a mopey expression on her face as she watched it. "Don't Mycroft. Freaks don't get people and I get him. I should just shut up. He provides some… feeling that I'm good enough."

"No, Sherlock. You cannot convince yourself that he is enough. You won't, in fact, if I have to get rid of him myself, I will. You know I can make that happen."

Mycroft felt that he needed to be firmer about this; he couldn't let Sherlock slip back into self-deprecation. "Eat, please," his tone softened and he saw the way she was staring down at her plate. It made him nervous to think of what was going through her head.

Sherlock placed small forkfuls in her mouth, eventually increasing in size. "You can't get rid of him," she almost slipped that he was the only person she'd had this sort of relationship with. Mycroft could see it anyway.

"I'll do anything as long as it means you're safe, and right now, you're not." Mycroft could see in her eyes, she was hiding something. Something she wanted to hang on to from this relationship, however damaging.

Sherlock, to her brother was fully readable. "Oh just go ahead and deduce me, you've been aching to figure it. I can see it on your face that you think I'm hiding something," she snapped.

"We deduce each other, Sherlock. It's just what we do." Mycroft could see Sherlock hated being so vulnerable and she couldn't believe that she had opened up so much to him. "What are you clinging onto from this?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock hollered back. She had never been one for yelling. "It's sentimental… pathetic."

"Emotion doesn't make you pathetic, despite what mother and father say." Mycroft knew the profound effect their parents had on Sherlock.

Sherlock stiffened at the mention of their parents. "Why does it matter why I'm clinging on?"

"Because, as I said before, I want you to be safe," Mycroft paused. "Or at least aware of what this is doing to you. Have you seen yourself? Looked in a mirror lately?" Mycroft realised immediately that this was the wrong this to say.

"I beg your pardon," Sherlock snarled. Detached in tone, but not in expression. "What is wrong with my appearance?"

"You're the thinnest I've ever seen you. You're fading away. You look exhausted, like you're about to collapse. Have you even slept in the last week? Probably not, I assume. Due to the narcotics?" Mycroft knew that he definitely went too far this time.

Sherlock leapt from the bench, dizzy and light-headed. "Good!" she snapped, "I don't care! Let me fade away, I don't care! Do you hear me? I'm empty and I don't care! I'm barely enough for him, why should I care?"

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hands in his and pulled her in close to his chest. "Stop it! Stop it now! Sherlock, stop! Calm down." Mycroft held her firm and steady and felt her shaking against him. Her breath was uneven and shallow.

Sherlock let her body go limp against her brother's frame, trembling. She nodded, begging herself not to cry. "I haven't…" she began slowly, "had that type of relationship with… anyone before or done those things. I don't understand what I'm doing or why I care or why I let him do what he likes and it's because that will all go away if I let it. It won't happen again for me and it needs to matter, otherwise there's nothing for me. I stay empty."

Mycroft held his sister tighter, pulling her in. He knew that constant pressure over large areas of her body would calm her nervous system down. Sherlock knew this too. He bent and picked Sherlock up and carried her into the guest bedroom. He set her down on the bed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered softly, the words catching in his throat.

Sherlock pulled her knees to her chest. "Sentimental," she spat to herself.

Mycroft sat at her feet, looking at her. He couldn't stand to watch her self-destruct, not anymore. "Feelings aren't always such a bad thing, Sherlock."

"Why do I care if it was the first time or the fiftieth, it's illogical," she countered, shaking.

"What are you going to do about it then?" Mycroft knew she would realise soon enough.

Sherlock shook her head uselessly, "I don't know," she repeated. "Don't you understand? I am stuck and I don't know what to do. I can't figure this out."

"You can't keep spiralling into this place anymore, Sherlock. You're a shell, you're just worth so much more." Mycroft was trying harder than ever to convince his sister into getting help and getting away from Victor.

Sherlock nodded reluctantly, "I can just tell him to leave…" she began, uncertainly. "I've never had to do this before, Mycroft."

"Do you want me to take care of it?" Mycroft tried to offer help, but it was unfitting.

Sherlock shook her head. "No, I can do it," she affirmed stubbornly.

"Alright," Mycroft conceded, "You must do it soon, though."

Sherlock sighed, running her fingers through her hair. "Tomorrow," she promised.

"Good. I'm glad." Mycroft was relieved. He couldn't bear to watch her decline any longer.

"Mycroft. I'll eat tomorrow. I need to sleep first," Sherlock sighed and closed her eyes.

"Yes. You look exhausted. We'll have breakfast together tomorrow, alright?" Mycroft felt that food was not a top priority at this moment, judging by Sherlock's red eyes and slow reactions. She was, indeed, exhausted.

Sherlock nodded, bringing the blanket over her. She didn't need to worry about spare clothes, Mycroft either kept some here for her or she would have new ones by the morning.

Mycroft came in to check on Sherlock later that night before and sat in the leather armchair across from the bed. He fell asleep watching Sherlock. Watching over her.

Waking up with the sun, Sherlock blinked a little before reluctantly removing herself from bed and to the shower. She came out in a towel to find Mycroft placing a neat pile of clothes on the bed for her. She nodded in thanks as he left the room. "How respectable," she mused, dressing herself.

"I heard that!" Mycroft replied to Sherlock's sarcastic remark. He had organised a spread of food to be brought in, there was surely something that Sherlock would eat.

Sherlock walked out, raising her eyebrow at the spread. "It's just us, Mycroft," she said, looking at the large amount of food on the kitchen counter. Fiddling with her clothes and clean hair, she sighed, "I look like a girl."

"I thought it might be a nice change." Mycroft passed Sherlock a plate and raised an eyebrow, prompting her to pick something. "You don't have to have much, just something. I just wanted to make sure there was something you would or could have."

Sherlock plucked a bagel from a tray, spreading it with cream cheese and adding salmon, taking a bite she smiled contently. "I forgot food could be good…" she trailed off.

"It's meant to be good for you," Mycroft smiled at her. "I'm glad you're eating."

"You don't get to say that," Sherlock replied, sipping a cup of black coffee. "I wish I didn't have to ask, but may I still take the cash?"

"Although I don't encourage your… habits, I acknowledge that it is still a problem for you, so yes you may. I do expect that you will undertake…. wiser decisions in the future." Mycroft couldn't relax when speaking of his sister's drug problem. "I do hope you would come to me if this situation presents itself again."

Sherlock shrugged, "I can figure things out on my own, Mycroft."

"Evidently, as you find yourself in my flat, wearing clothes I bought you and eating the food I provide you," Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock paused mid-bite and put down the bagel as a show of defiance. "I'll change into my other clothes then, " she shot back coolly, "keep your cash too."

"No you won't," Mycroft snapped. "Finish your food."

Sherlock glared, picking up her breakfast. "What if he doesn't go?"

"I have ways of taking care of that," Mycroft replied quietly.

Sherlock froze, "You're the most dangerous man I'll ever meet, aren't you." She processed her thoughts slowly.

"Yes, and you're lucky that I am on your side," Mycroft replied swiftly, wanting to move on from this particular train of conversation.

Sherlock grimaced, finishing her food and drinking more coffee. "Why did you pick these clothes?"

"You deserve the best," Mycroft picked up a piece of dry toast and took a bite. "Are you surprised?"

Sherlock rolled her eyes, "No, they're just different to what I was wearing…" She shrugged, "I do own both nice and clean things, which I wear, for the record."

"Just not often, I presume. Sherlock I'm not one to judge you on your choice of clothing, I just thought you might like something nice." Mycroft attempted to be affectionate.

Sherlock nodded, "The gesture is appreciated," she replied before looking bemused. "I think mother would scream with happiness if she saw me like this."

Mycroft laughed, "I think she would as well. You look beautiful."

Sherlock reached for a strawberry and wrapped her lips around it. "Shut up," she advised him.

"I know you don't think so," Mycroft saw her deflections before they came. "Were you planning on visiting your… friend today? With the cash?"

Sherlock fell silent. "It's not your business. I don't have a problem."

"We both know that only people who have problems don't think they have a problem," Mycroft replied swiftly.

"Oh, how original," Sherlock replied, "learn that in group therapy?" She bit her lip. She was pushing it.

"You can deny it for as long as you want, Sherlock, but I was forward thinking enough to provide you with a blouse with sleeves. We don't want people seeing those track marks, do we?" Mycroft pushed right back. They were both stubborn enough to get through an argument as heated as this.

"Mycroft, you're in the business of pulling facts behind a curtain, I am not. The same curtain we were shoved behind our whole lives, when you went to hospital and told everyone about your nice vacation in Vienna." Sherlock was venomously angry now.

"I went to hospital because I didn't take to drugs to numb my pain. I dealt with it, Sherlock. Apparently you can't." Mycroft's attacks were becoming increasingly more vicious.

Sherlock stood up from the table. "I don't have anything to deal with, Mycroft. I just get bored. You can't cure an emotionless disposition."

Mycroft stood, overshadowing Sherlock's small stature. "You just 'get bored'," he paused, "You just… get bored? That's your excuse now? Honestly, Sherlock, I thought you could come up with something better than that."

Sherlock gulped, refusing to cower under her brother. "Oh, do something about it then," she sneered.

"I am trying! I am trying to help you, Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled. Sherlock triggered a rise in him.

Sherlock stared at him, dead eyed. "You can't help what's not worth helping."

"Don't you dare, Sherlock. Don't you dare say that you're not worth it. I would have saved a lot of time and money in the past few years if you weren't worth it, Sherlock. Don't you dare insult me like that, and don't insult yourself like that." Mycroft was angry, but his tone softened.

Sherlock blinked in surprised, still expecting anger from her brother. She stayed quiet for a few moments before nodding and sitting without saying a word.

"You're wildly intelligent, a brilliant young mind, smarter than I can ever hope to be. You're beautiful and full of opportunity and you choose to live your life in a back alleyway, getting high with some low-life asshole? It's not enough for you. You are capable of so much more, Sherlock. Can't you see that? Can't you recognise it?" Mycroft was calming down, slowly. Several minutes passed in silence.

"How do you see that when you look at me?" Sherlock managed to choke out.

"When we were young, when you were about nine or ten, I saw a spark in your eyes. You were hopelessly interested in everything, in anything. You would lose yourself in books for days, not coming out for anything. You were finishing my homework before I could even comprehend it. You saw inspiration and excitement in everything and then you realised that you were different to the other people you knew. You saw the world in this different and exciting way, but you couldn't cope with that. You were spinning madly out of control, miles ahead of anyone I've ever known. You're like that now, but I can still see the smallest gleam of hope. I saw it last night." Mycroft sat next to Sherlock at the counter and was silent.

Sherlock sat wide-eyed, barely aware that she was shaking. Small tears dropped onto her cheeks. She felt tightness in her throat from the brutal honesty of her brother's statement. "Thank-you," was all she could choke out.

Mycroft stood when he saw Sherlock's tears. He had only ever seen Sherlock cry once before, for a brief moment, five years ago. He stood and wrapped his arms around her tiny, fragile shoulders. He tightened his grip and felt her breath heave and tense. He felt her muscles quiver and shake. He stroked her hair, freshly washed and dried. He would come to cherish this moment for the rest of his life.

Sherlock barely had the energy to lift her arms around him, still coping with the compliment. "You wouldn't let me destroy myself, would you?" she uttered slowly.

"Never," he whispered.


End file.
